What About the Shrimp?
by Damelia Evenshire
Summary: Imagine Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in high school. Now turn Sherlock, Mycroft and Anderson in to females. Add some homicide investigations, a skull, violins playing at ungodly hours and some bioluminescent shrimp. Welcome to the weird but wonderful world of "What About the Shrimp?". Possible Johnlock, definite Irenelock and the rating may (will) go up. Warnings for dub-con.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes, 14 and in year ten, was incredibly bored. She already knew what the teacher was driveling about and it frustrated her to no end. _And _she wanted to check on her bioluminescent shrimp. If the camera recording the shrimp ran out of battery before she got back she would be extraordinarily ticked.

John Watson, 16 and in year ten, was incredibly late. He was staring at St. Bart's High School and did not want to miss the first class, on the first day in the new semester. That would be extraordinarily unfortunate and he had yet to find out that it was also a social faux pas. He burst in to class.

"Watson, Watson. You're terribly late dear, but no matter. You won't get a tardy slip today. I'm Miss Wilson; I'll be your science teacher for the year." Jennifer Wilson spoke in a high pitched voice that always seemed to be in a perpetual state of sweetness. "Thank you, miss." John turned to the class. There were several empty seats, so he chose a random one.

John Watson, the much spoken-of new kid, was sitting next to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was too tied up in thinking about her bioluminescent shrimp and whether or not they would live to see the end of the week to bother with anything else, including noticing John. "John Watson." He presented himself, nearly whispering to not get the attention of the teacher. Sherlock popped herself out of a world where it was just her and the shrimp.

"16, ex-captain of a rugby team, retired due to recent sport's injury, aspiring army doctor, older alcoholic brother, single and _not my problem right now_." Sherlock hissed back. John was stunned in to silence and Sherlock fought a smirk. "How the bloody hell did you figure all that out? Have you been on my Facebook?" John whispered in awe and shock. "Elementary, my dear Watson." The ebony-haired girl drawled.

The bell rang and she got her stuff together. John was just about to follow her, because how on _earth _could anybody even _do_ that, when Miss Wilson stopped him and the dark-haired girl. "I realise this is extremely unorthodox, but…Miss. Holmes is the only one with an available dorm, what with you popping in halfway through…would you be completely adverse to sharing a dorm together?" Wilson all but begged. Sherlock was just making to protest, so was John, when an authoritive female voice cut in.

"I'm sure Sherly would be just fine with that, won't you dear?" John and Sherlock turned and there was Mycah Holmes, vice principal. Sherlock fumed, but up against her older sister, resistance was futile. "That'll be just fine, _beloved older sister_." Sherlock gave a sickly-sweet smile. "Come along, Watson." Sherlock said cheerily. Mycah was the only one to observe Sherlock giving her the middle finger through the guise of scratching the back of her curly head.

"221B Baker Building." Sherlock announced promptly, making to open the door. "I'm sorry, was it…Shirley? I don't even know your name, and I'm moving in with you. And you seem to know everything about me." John said, trying to put it as gently as possible. Sherlock gave a lopsided smile that John decided was probably the scariest thing he'd ever seen.

"The age was evident from the fact that you're in year ten, well-built and tanned but not obnoxiously so, your left hand is dominant yet you try to use it as little as possible. Aspiring army doctor: there is the clear indentation of dog tags under your shirt. If they were a remake or a fake, they'd be on top. No, this is more sentimental so you keep them under wraps.

The older brother: Please, child's play. Your bag had obviously had a previous owner, and you can see the smudged name 'Harry Watson'. There are also a few stains on the bag and the clear signs of one of the pockets getting a little too friendly with a bottle of vodka. Conclusion: 16, ex-captain of a rugby team, retired due to recent sport's injury, aspiring army doctor, older alcoholic brother, single and _still_ not my problem right now." John paused. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to applaud her for her accuracy or punch her for nosiness.

She sighed. "If you're going to punch me, get it over with. I must say, I was expecting you to be more interesting, but I guess that's what you get." She stared him square in the face. He was now _seriously _sure he wanted to punch her, but he didn't punch girls, as a general rule. "My, my, Sherly. Look at you on the new kid. I thought I had dibs, darling." John turned to face a girl whose features mirrored Sherlock's but held more…naughtiness.

She smirked at him and brought Sherlock in for a kiss on the lips. The brunette pulled herself away from Sherlock and smirked. "John Watson, correct? I'm Irene Adler. Treat Sherlock nicely, will you dear?" she walked away, leaving John a little more shocked. He cleared his throat. "Um…your girlfriend?" he asked awkwardly. Sherlock gave a look of distaste. "It's a temporary arrangement. Did she smudge her lipstick on me?" she asked. "You've got a bit here. Can I?" Sherlock nodded. He wiped a small amount of the red from her lips. "There. All gone."

"Well, lookie here. Freak's not a fag after all." Upon hearing that voice, Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh and pulled out another of those lopsided smiles. "Melissa Anderson, it's been a while." Sherlock wasn't moving visibly to Anderson and her gang, but the hands she held behind her back were furiously trying to open the door. She didn't want another verbal evisceration, not this early in the morning. "Run along and finish your history essay, Anderson. It's clear you were up with…oh, Sammy Donovan this time? What about your little boyfriend?" and with that, Sherlock opened the door to 221B and pulled John in after her.

"Who the hell are they?" John demanded. Did this school have any other characters? "Morons." Sherlock dismissed them. She checked on a camera in one corner and then went to a tank with….fish? Glowing fish? "What are those?" John asked, setting his bag down on the unoccupied bed. "Bioluminescent shrimp, they're my new experiment." Sherlock explained with some level of pride. "Very cool." John agreed with the unspoken statement. "So, um…why did they call you freak?" John asked. Sherlock briefly tensed, then relaxed and put her control back together after that brief lapse. "It's a nickname I adopted in grade school." She explained no further, electing to remove a black riding crop with a frown.

"I have no idea where this came from." She observed it more carefully. Black leather, about two feet long…then she gave a dry laugh. "Whose is it?" John asked. "It's a puzzle." She smirked and put it under the mattress, ideas as to what she could do to Irene in return already forming in the back of her mind.

"So…who are you?" John asked. Sherlock sat parallel to him. "I'm fourteen, I live and breathe science and I play the violin at ungodly hours." She said, summing her entire being in to 15 words. "You're fourteen, and in year ten? And you have this Irene as a girlfriend?" John asked in disbelief. Sherlock looked puzzled. "Yes." She answered cautiously. "Oh god, that bit about Irene…I'm sorry, I didn't mean it." He apologised profusely.

Sherlock observed John. He looked so…confused. "The arrangement between Irene and I is as temporary as it impersonal. It benefitted us both to be in a 'relationship' so here we are." She explained. John laughed. "You are…brilliant." He offered. "Really?" she asked. "Yes, that was brilliant." He insisted. "Hm. That's not what most people say." She took some books out of her bag and replaced them with others. "What do people normally say?" John asked. She thought for a moment

"Piss off." She left the dorm.

Sherlock was, again, bored. At least science carried the (unlikely) possibility of learning something new. Math had no such potential. She amused herself by deducing Sammy Donovan, one of the morons who insisted on calling her freak. Sammy and she shared a common interest: disagreeing.

Luckily, Mary Morstan and her double D's had John's attention elsewhere. Sherlock, again, had the desk to herself, which is how she preferred it. While Jim Moriarty, the math teacher, was drivelling in his over-enthusiastic voice about trigonometry, the old PA system clicked in. "Will all students return to their dorms. All students, return to their dorms." Gregory Lestrade, school principal, asked/demanded. Sherlock fought a smirk. Her bioluminescent shrimp wouldn't be lonely after all.


	2. Chapters 2

John was disappointed. Mary seemed like a nice girl, and he wouldn't have minded getting to know her. Luck would have it that he was back at his dorm with Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock was tending to her shrimp. "How long have you actually had those things?" John asked. "Seven months." She replied absently, pushing a black curl out of her face. She pulled what looked like a container of fish food and put small amounts inside of the tank. It looked to be about two gallons and contained four shrimp. "Did you name them?" he asked.

She stopped her feeding and raised an eyebrow. "_Name _them? Why on earth would I name _shrimp_?" she asked incredulously. "Well, you've had them for seven months, and you've been in your own dorm since September. You must get lonely." He pointed out. She frowned, thoughtful. "Fine then. I'll name them." She thought a moment longer. Somehow, John expected her answer to be naming them One, Two, Three and Four.

"A, B, C and D." she replied simply. She closed the lid on the fish food and opened up her computer. She typed at a dizzying speed, and John suddenly felt embarrassed at his slow typing. Suddenly, a loud moan sounded in the room. The moan was most definitely female. Sherlock, however, appeared completely unfazed and pulled out her BlackBerry, apparently the source of noise. Her dark eyebrows shot up. Without warning, she gave one of those bone-chilling smiles and left the dorm.

_What a strange girl. _John decided, pulling out his own laptop. He logged on to his Facebook, considering searching up Mary, when a thought occurred to him. Checking the already empty room in paranoia, he opened a new, incognito tab and looked up 'Sherlock Holmes'.

Quietly, Sherlock walked in the empty halls. Irene's text, consisting of only four words, had her sneaking in to the dorm Irene shared with Kate Morrison.

**From: **The Woman  
**To: **S. Holmes  
**Time**: 6:17 PM

_There's been a murder. _

Nothing on Facebook. John gave up looking for Sherlock: she clearly had no intention of being known on Facebook. He opened another tab and searched her name. He found a website 'the Science of Deduction' which enumerated 243 types of Tabaco ash and other assorted things that intrigued John more than he was willing to admit.

**From: **S. Holmes  
**To: **The Woman  
**Time: **6:17 PM

_Where? –S.H_

**From: **The Woman  
**To: **S. Holmes  
**Time: **6:18 PM

_Wouldn't you like to know?_

She growled in frustration. What else did this infuriating woman want from her?

**From: **S. Holmes  
**To: **The Woman  
**Time: **6:18 PM

_What do you want? –S.H_

**From: **The Woman  
**To: **S. Holmes  
**Time: **6:18 PM

_Be at my room in five._

Sherlock knocked at the door quietly. Irene was in nothing more than her revealing emerald robe. "Sherlock, darling come in." she gave Sherlock a quick peck on the cheek and pulled her in by the collar of her shirt. Sherlock had to force herself not to flinch as Irene's hand trailed lower. _Not the time to have a panic attack, Holmes. Besides: this is for the puzzle. Puzzle. _She forced herself to remember and kiss Irene back.

Twenty minutes later, Irene was satisfied and Sherlock's back was stinging with two more whip marks. Irene tried to keep those to a minimum as they were noticeable. Sherlock straightened her clothing and gave her messy curls a tousle to return them to normality. "22 Lauriston Building." She drawled, stroking her whip lovingly. Sherlock nodded and sped off to the teacher's building. _Which one? _She wondered, taking the stairs two at a time despite the dull ache between her legs.

Jennifer Wilson's room was blocked off, and Sherlock allowed herself a smirk. She crawled under the blue and white tape and took in the sight. Still wearing her coat, matching shades of pink _everywhere_…but where was her purse? Sherlock took another look around, but no purse in sight. She heard footsteps coming up and gave the room a scan with different eyes. Under the bed. She rolled quietly and, with difficulty, suspended herself from the edge of the mattress. The lights in the room got flipped on.

John wasn't waiting for Sherlock. Nope. He hadn't been up waiting for two hours for a girl he met barely two hours ago. Not at all. And that would explain why he was still up, waiting for her to come back. _I'm not waiting for her. I'll just go…I don't know. Make sure she's not dying or anything. _He opened the door to the dorm, only to be greeted with the sight of Anthea Brown. But as of yet, he doesn't know who Anthea is. "Mr. Watson. Please, come along. Miss. Holmes is waiting for you." She turned around in her black stilettoes and beckoned him. Still confused, he followed her. "Uh…who?" he asked. She looked up from her BlackBerry. "Miss. Holmes." Anthea led him out of the building and in to a non-descript black car. A few moments of awkward silence passed. "What's your name, then?" he asked. "Um…Anthea." She said hesitantly. "Is that your real name?" he asked. She gave an amused smile. "No." she opened the car door and John followed out to what appeared to be…a warehouse?

It was then that John came to the conclusion that this was going to be an interesting year.

Sherlock tried to identify the footsteps in the room. Definitely male: small feet, not at all quiet and making no effort to be. The shoes were about…two years old, going by the sound they made on the hardwood. She heard a couple of snickers and more footsteps. _Oh, god no. _she thought to herself. "Sammy! I dare you to touch her!" Melissa Anderson's nasal voice taunted in a nearly-whisper. "No way! She's _dead_." Sammy said, revolted. "Told you he was a cunt." Dimmock chimed. Sherlock's grip on the bedframe slipped for a moment. It made a soft sound under the bed and the three of them stopped their incessant chatter. Anderson crept closer to the bed and lifted the sheet that was hiding her.

_Shit._

The inside revealed a very empty warehouse. Other than himself, there was only one person. "Mr. Watson." Mycah Holmes gave a polite tip of her head as acknowledgement. "Who are you?" he demanded. He thought she was vaguely familiar, but her features could have been anybody's. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" she asked, twirling a black umbrella. "I…I don't see how that's any of your business." He stammered. His phone chirped. He pulled it out.

**From: **S. Holmes  
**To: **J. Watson  
**Time: **6:48 PM

_Come at once if convenient. –S.H_

"I would be willing to offer you a considerable sum of money if you would…keep an eye on her for me." Holmes offered. "Nope." John said, almost without thinking. His phone chirped again, but he ignored it. "But I haven't mentioned a figure yet." She insisted. "No." John repeated. He opened the text on his phone.

**From: **S. Holmes.  
**To: **J. Watson  
**Time: **6:49 PM

_If inconvenient, come anyways. –S.H_

"Miss Holmes? It's been a pleasure, but I really do have to go." John insisted. He didn't even pretend to show any decency: he ran back to the school. Mycah Holmes chewed on her lips for a moment before deciding what to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**This is a very short chapter – longer one to come very soon. Pinky promise! Sorry for the delay!**

Sherlock held her breath and stayed completely still. She could hear Anderson & co moving around the bed suspiciously. The text she'd sent Watson was just a wayward hope a complete stranger would come help her. She saw the light on her Blackberry flick red. With difficulty, she opened the text discreetly.

**From: **J. Watson  
**To: **S. Holmes  
**Time: **6:51 PM

_Where are you? _

**From: **S. Holmes  
**To: **J. Watson  
**Time: **6:51

_Lauriston Building, at the school. Please hurry. –S.H_

Her one-handed typing was legendary. She turned the light off the phone just as she heard a sneaker stop right in front of the bed. "Who's there?" she heard somebody say from a reasonable distance. Watson. Anderson & co. scattered, and she let herself breathe. "Sherlock?" footsteps again.

She rolled out from under the bed, wincing when the whip marks on her back came in contact with the floor. John let out a decidedly unmanly squeal. "Good evening." She said politely, getting up off the floor and dusting herself off. "Uh…hi." He said. "What were you doing…_oh my god is she dead?_" the last part was said in a whisper. "She's clearly not breathing." Sherlock replied dryly, pulling her magnifying glass out of her pocket. She knelt beside Jennifer Wilson and observed her.

"Why did you text me?" John asked Sherlock. She remained silent and continued to observe the woman. "Hello? Earth to Sherlock?" he poked her back. She flinched and pulled away from the pink lady. "Where has there been rain in the last two hours?" she demanded, ignoring the flaring pain in her back. "Uh – I don't – what's going on?" he asked. "Look at her." Sherlock walked slowly around the body. John thought she looked like a predator.

"Her appearance suggests meticulous attention to fashion, but look at her hair! Her coat collar is wet, but the umbrella is dry." Sherlock listed off all the relevant things, leaving out how the jewelry was a sign of her infidelity and the lack of a purse. "How did you – " John was cut off by a door closing softly. The two future companions looked each other in the eyes and for the first time, understood exactly what the other was thinking.

As a result, they ran out of the room and out of Lauriston Building in record time.

Too bad it was only the janitor.

Sherlock performed an elegant drop from standing to laying on her bed while John slumped in to one of the chairs in their dorm. "What the hell was that?" he demanded, just catching his breath. "That was a dead woman and I want to know who killed her." Sherlock said calmly. "It's just a hobby." She defended, seeing John's odd expression. "And you've been out to see somebody. A Miss. Holmes, I presume?" she asked, her nose crinkling at the name. "How—you know what? Not even going to ask. Who is she?" John asked.

"She is the most dangerous woman you will ever meet. Did she offer you money to keep an eye on me?" John nodded. "Did you accept?" she corrected, sounding a little scandalised. "No." John replied, baffled that she'd even ask. "Idiot. We could have split the money." She steepled her narrow hands (nails painted blood red, John noted) and went back to thinking. "Well, that was…that was something. I'm going to bed now." No reaction. John sighed and simply accepted that this girl was odd.


	4. Chapter 4

Her brain was literally rotting. She was sure of it this time. Mary and John flirted away, Irene's nimble hands pulled something that looked suspiciously like a wad of cash from an over-eager student and _oh my god she was bored. _John giggled quietly. It sounded like a gunshot in the library. She struggled to concentrate on the math assignment. Bored. Bored. BORED. Finally, when she felt like she was at the point where she'd either go on an ill-timed killing spree or have her brain melt out of her ears, Sherlock snuck out of the nearly empty library and hit Prof. Moriarty square in the chest. He let out an irritated noise and pushed her aside. She pulled her bag higher up on her shoulder and went to her now shared dorm. And – because fate felt the unnatural urge to piss on her – Lestrade was there. "Holmes." He said in a menacing tone.

Lestrade and Sherlock had quite a history. Her very first week she'd set fire to the science lab. Her family had built a bigger and better one afterwards and thanks to Mycah's not-so-insignificant position in the government, she wasn't arrested. Not a full month later, she told no less than four teachers had their dirtiest secrets deduced in front of full classrooms. That one earned her a suspension for a full week and a black eye from a passionately pissed off gym teacher who was now filing for a divorce.

Melissa Anderson and Sherlock Holmes' first meeting was when Sherlock threw a lunch tray at her for calling her a freak. Their second meeting was when Anderson, Dimmock and Donovan had nearly drowned her in the pool on the bottom floor of St. Bart's. Two weeks suspension for them. But not to fear: Sherlock got back at them. Though she never claimed it, the Rogaine in Anderson's hand cream, the bleach in Donovan's shampoo and the sudden, vicious virus on Dimmock's computer were all on her.

Ever since that first day, Lestrade knew that Sherlock Holmes was going to be a handful. The fact that she hadn't been expelled was purely by the grace of Mycah Holmes.

"Care to explain why we found six dead jellyfish, a jar of fireflies and an even bigger jar of mushrooms in your dorm?" he asked. "It's because of them." She pointed at her shrimp. "What about them?" he asked patiently. She flipped off the lights. Lestrade let out a startled curse and nearly tripped over Sherlock's coat when he saw the various things glow. "What were you doing in my room anyways? You can't just do that." she asked plaintively.

"Actually, we do." Sarah Wilson – Lestrade's secretary – said. (What the hell was the secretary doing there?) With a toss of her oh-so-perfect hair, Wilson clicked away. "Please, Holmes. Don't let us find something like this again." Lestrade pleaded. "You're brilliant – no doubt about it. Mad as a hatter, but still brilliant. I don't want to see you waste away." He said. His fathering tone grated on her already shredded nerves. "Leave." She gritted, noting that her things had been shifted. "Sherlock – " "Leave!" she snapped.

John walked back to the shared dorm, feeling about ten feet off the ground with Mary's number in his pocket. He walked in and Sherlock was having an absolute fit. "The bloody _bastard_." She cursed angrily, throwing a much-abused notebook at a wall and sinking on to her bed. He noted the absence of an expensive coat and the blue Harrod's robe. "Hi." He tried tentatively. She glared absolute murder in his direction. "Why was Mr. Lestrade in our room?" he asked, choosing to overlook the way she nearly growled when he mentioned Lestrade. "He was looking through my things, looking for something less innocent than Panellus Stipticus." She stomped over to the shrimp and tested the water. "Panellus Stipticus?" he questioned. "Glow in the dark mushrooms." She clarified. "And Mary doesn't want to see you tonight. She'll be busy studying for the English test." She added offhandedly. "Wait –what?" "Test. Mary isn't interested. Waste your time on some other girl." She said, somewhat meanly. "Yes, well. This has been lovely." He put his backpack on his bed (carefully avoiding the laptop – hey, _wait a minute_!) "Why is my laptop open?" he asked angrily. "What?" she snapped. "My laptop. The password protected one." He prompted. "Oh. Couldn't find mine." She said simply. "It was _password protected!" _he yelled. "And you think 'doubledoubleD' is a challenging password? Please, if you didn't have a soldier as a father, I would have to call you pathetic. But you do, so it just makes you ordinary. Predictable." she raised an eyebrow. He felt the colour rise to his cheeks and marched out of the dorm.

He couldn't see past the red glare to notice the way Sherlock's gray eyes seemed to say 'I'm sorry'.


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay, I'm sorry that I'm such a horrible author and don't update for eons then go nuts. I'll make a few things clear. a) I prefer writing short chapters, but I promise they'll be added a little sooner. I post them as soon as I write them, so please don't hate me. I'm hoping to update on Wednesdays from now on, but again, it might change. Still, my aim is one chapter a week. b) this is not going to be like the episodes. I'm taking elements from them, mixing them together and hoping for the best. If it's horrible, let me know. If it's wondeful, let me know. **

**I'm know to update faster if given reviews. I know this is shameless begging for reviews, but again, it's shameless and true.**

**Enjoy the chapters my lovelies!**

John ignored Sherlock for a good four days. In that time, she managed to find Jennifer Wilson's purse and was in the process of looking through it when John came back in to the room. She flicked her eyes up. John made as if to leave. "John, wait." She said. He turned. He was still angry, she could tell, but she wasn't sure exactly _what _she'd done wrong.

"I – I – I realise that I've said something wrong, but to be fair to myself it was perfectly true, what kind of password is 'doubledoubleD' anyways but that's beside the point _John, don't leave!_" his hand was still on the doorknob. "I'm not good at this, but…I'm sorry." She whispered. His hand fell away from the knob. "Is that Miss. Wilson's purse?" he asked. "Yes. Sherlock answered cautiously. "Good. Tell me about her case." He said. She wasn't sure what had just transpired, but she knew that for now, she was forgiven.

"I found it in a trash can just outside the school." She didn't mention that she hadn't actually been looking for it when she did find it, or what she was doing around the school dumpster. "There's all the things you would expect – lipstick, book, wallet – but where's her phone?" she paused (a rare thing).

"It's more than likely she's a serial adulteress. Married recently enough, unhappily. Her wedding ring told us that ages ago. And she couldn't have kept the illusion of being single for long, so several partners it is." The purse closed with a snap. "Brilliant." John said. "You're aware you say that out loud?" she questioned, putting the obscenely pink bag in her drawer. Then, it occurred to her that maybe she'd broken this little peace they had. She froze and prayed she hadn't made him hate her just this fast, and then cursed herself. His opinion didn't mean a damned thing. "Sorry." He apologised quietly. "No, it's…fine." She could have sworn he smiled, but if he did, she didn't see it.

Sherlock was stumped and bored, but not so much that she would go see Irene. The fragile peace she held with John slowly built until some would dare call it a friendship. Then somebody called them a couple. "I'm not actually straight." Sherlock snapped when John didn't insist that "Nope, we're not a couple." Even Irene teased occasionally and Sherlock found it difficult not to point out that she was the one in Irene's bed so she should shut up. She wasn't sure if it was just to kill the rumours that they were dating, but John started going out with Mary Morstan and Sherlock couldn't kill the stab of jealousy that got her every time the blonde girl walked past. She didn't know who she was jealous for though – Mary, because she was stealing her friend colleague or John because he had a level of stability in Mary.

John was walking in to the Social Studies classroom when Sherlock bolted past him, adjusting her skirt and scowling. He wasn't sure what to make of it when, back at 221B, she didn't come back until morning, looking haunted and pale. He asked her several times if she was alright, but she brushed him off without an explanation. By the end of the day, she was looking better and even smiled and flirted with a member of the student body he didn't recognise.

Then Mr. Sebastian Wilkes died.

**Cliffhanger! What fun! I'm just going to sit here and watch you squirm for the next chapter! No, lol. Don't worry – I'm not Moffat. The chapter should be done in a few days. Cheers, my lovelies! **


	6. Chapter 6

The weekend brought John Watson many things. Starting on Saturday morning with the official announcement that Mr. Sebastian Wilkes – the charismatic social studies teacher – was dead. Then, when he down to breakfast (without Sherlock), a quick slap to the face and _"We're through!" _from Mary, followed by the appropriate and expected whispering and rumouring. After some mingling, he found that apparently Kitty Riley, the school's gossip queen, had found John and Sherlock snogging in a closet. His first reaction to that was _we weren't snogging! _Then, after a good five minutes of fuming, he started asking the more important question:

_How the hell did they know we were in a closet together?_

He set a mental note to find out who Kitty Riley was.

Determined, John went back to 221B, only to narrowly avoid being stabbed with a knife that landed on a wall behind him.

"What the _hell_ was that!?" he demanded to an unfazed, bored looking Sherlock who was lounging on her bed in a blue robe. She leaned gracefully back on a pile of pillows and John didn't notice how she winced almost imperceptibly, rearranging herself.

"I was aiming for the door." She said. "Then _you_ interrupted." John sighed, closing the door to reveal a graffiti'd on smiley face painted on its back.

"What have you done to my bloody wall?!" Mrs. Hudsons' voice called from the steps below as she stomped angrily up the stairs and threw the dorm's door open. Sherlock peered at the landlady innocently and John didn't say a word, just pointed at the moronic genius in bed. She scowled at him.

"I'm billing you for the repairs, young lady." The elderly woman snapped, wringing her hands as she walked away.

"You realise that Mrs. Hudson will actually kill you one of these days?" John asked calmly, plucking his favourite novel from his bag and opening it at a random page.

"Nonsense; she loves me." Sherlock replied with a sniff as she pulled out her phone. John winced when a breathy moan filled the room vulgarly.

"Why does your phone make that noise?" he asked.

"What noise?" she asked innocently. The BlackBerry moaned.

"That one." He said, tilting his head in the direction of the phone.

"It means someone's texted me."

"It wouldn't be your girlfriend by any chance, no?" he asked, giving a wide berth for a smartass comment.

"Do _not_ call her that." The ice in Sherlock's tone was sudden and unmistakable.

John looked up from his book to see a pair of gray eyes looking at him almost…pleadingly?

_Nonsense._

He chided himself.

_Sherlock doesn't beg._

Sherlock puttered about the room for a moment longer. Then, seemingly fed up with the manic energy that filled her every movement, she leapt to her feet. Stalking towards the door, she didn't bother to offer John any bid of farewell as she reached for the doorknob. Her hand hovered over it for a moment, turning her expression into something strangely….. vulnerable. John didn't see, only catching a glimpse of the girls' veil of dark curls before the young genius disappeared like a wraith.

…

She hadn't expected Irene to be so quick – she was waiting and in battle dress, holding a suspicious black object in her hand. Her head was tilted condescendingly as Sherlock arrived haltingly at her threshold, her dark red lips pursed in a mocking sort of smile.

"Sherly, dear. Come in to the showers – I have somebody else in twenty minutes." She purred with a kiss to the other girl's cheek. Sherlock stiffened, but she took off her robe and underwear and turned on the shower, acting as if Irene was not there.

Soundlessly, she turned on the water as Irene entered the shower cubicle. The sound of the water thundering about her ears muffled the pounding of her own heart.

"_God _Sherlock, how haven't you burnt yourself to a crisp?" Irene tutted as one pale arm reached above the crest of the teen's wildly dark curls to turn the water down until Sherlock was shivering. Those red-painted fingernails traced the goose-bumps that rose along her neck languidly, coming to rest at the nape of her spine in a gesture that should be romantic, and yet was decidedly possessive.

"T – Turn it up." Sherlock asked through chattering teeth. She meant for her voice to come out as a growl, but instead to her horror it cracked at the end.

"What's the magic word?" Irene drawled, running a hand over the other girl's left breast. Sherlock shut her eyes tightly, trying to ignore the heated shame that burned her cheeks to fire.

"P – p –_please_." She spat.

The water temperature went up until Sherlock wasn't freezing, but Irene's hands continued to wander over her skin lightly. They crawled like spider's legs across her abdomen, tracing gradually lower. Sherlock felt bile, hot and acidic rise to her throat. She clenched her jaw in hatred.

"Bend over."

An order.

A demand.

She wanted to run. Never before had she felt such a compulsion to do so, pulling her lungs inside out and leaving her breathless with desperation. For just a moment, a flash of a blue-eyed face filled her mind. At that moment, she wondered if John Watson would have been so quick to use the word _brilliant _if he knew just how weak she was.

Because the craving, the want for the rush was calling her.

And she could not resist its sweet sound.

She followed the instructions.

Sherlock bit her lip as the large, foreign object entered her in one swift motion.

…

Ten minutes later, Irene had finished.

She sashayed away without a word of thanks or contempt, leaving Sherlock feeling cold and numb. The money had been left in Sherlock's towel. Nearly two hundred pounds. It seemed she had been feeling more generous than usual. Later on, the raven-haired girl would probably feel smug about it.

The water in the shower had long since grown cold, so Sherlock stepped into another cubicle and turned the tap up until the temperature was scalding. She then scrubbed at her skin until the normally pale planes of her arms and legs were red. She knew there was no logical reason for her bother with such a ridiculous ritual. After all, this had been going on for a few years. Still, it sent a strange and fierce wave of relief to peel away every invisible layer of skin that had been touched and handled by another's hands_. _She kept scrubbing, working away until small patches of her arms bled crimson red.

Her back stung like she had stumbled onto a wasps' nest, but it wasn't as bad as it had been in the past. Six marks were nothing compared to what had happened in the past when Irene had been feeling overly zealous. She ignored herself when a little whimper of pain crossed her lips as she scrubbed the marks.

There wasn't _much_ blood, really. Sherlock supposed in that regard she couldn't complain too much. She hadn't bled from one of Irene's _other _ministrations since she was thirteen (and consequentially still a virgin), but sometimes the woman liked to find creative ways to force the young woman to react.

Honestly, she just liked blood, liked the feeling of control it gave her. She was a dominatrix by nature, and she was not shy to admit it.

Sherlock threw on her robe and silently padded down the hall towards 221B. At first she was briefly worried she might have to make a quick like towards her flatmate, but upon opening the door it was obvious that John was gone. So, gathering her robe about her middle imperiously she marched towards her room with the single-minded intention of sleep. She didn't even bother with pajamas – just crawled wearily into the white expanse of sheets. She was just so bone-tired, it didn't even occur to her that it might be a problem until much later. For the moment, she let herself become lost to sleep, her Mind-Palace carrying her far away from the pains of her transport.

John came back from lunch about a half an hour later – once again Sherlockless – and found the curly haired, would-be genius curled up like a giant cat in bed. For a moment he stood in shock at the foot of her bedroom, mouth hanging open as he stared at the porcelain face just peeking out from the massive cocoon of sheets.

Sherlock's face appeared much younger as she slept, somehow smooth from the usual lines of tension about her strong brow and eyes. Breath splaying evenly from her cupid's-bow lips, those dark eyelashes fluttered slightly as if the young woman was lost in the middle of a dream. John found himself smiling slightly, noticing how as she slept the sharpness of the genius seemed to melt away, leaving behind a girl that seemed far too young to act so old.

He couldn't recall ever having seen her sleep before, and had half-jokingly entertained vague ideas of Vampirism in the long hours of the night to explain the mad girl's strange eating and sleeping patterns. John was just relieved that he wouldn't wake up one night to find Sherlock drinking the blood of virgins any time soon (Though he wouldn't put it past the mad bugger to try it as an experiment).

He considered doing some homework and really did _try_ to do get something done, but in the end dicking around on the internet won over his already weak resolve. He surfed about idly on blogs and public forums for a little while, not wanting to make too much noise lest he disturb his sleeping counterpart. Without Sherlock terrorizing him with her mad pacing and strange experiments, John found the place eerily silent. Like a ghost town, where he could catch the faint echo of a memory, or a violin screeching if he strained to listen. Slowly, a full hour passed in which the teen felt strangely awkward and lonely in his own home.

When he refreshed the same page four times without even realizing he had done it, he finally shook his head and sighed. John wondered for just a moment as he rubbed at his tired eyes that if _this_ was how he coped with Sherlock's absence when she wasn't even really gone, how he might respond if she decided to leave one day for good.

The thought sent an uncomfortable feeling of tightness in the teen's chest, and he quickly ignored that train of thought and where it lead. He went back to his math homework, determined to figure out the next sum.

No point on dwelling on _'what ifs'_ with Sherlock Holmes.

Nothing was ever for certain with her.

...

There was a polite knock on the door a little after an hour. John closed his laptop with a sharp _snap_ – force of habit – and stood to open the door.

Mycah and Sherlock shared the same gray eyes and thick black-brown curls. However, Mycah's were tinged with just a hint of ginger-red, and were swept back severely into an elegant pony tail that came to rest in soft tumbling waves at the nape of her neck. Her figure was also slightly less angular, her height made up for by softer contours about her hips and bust.

She had a sharp stare and a sharper nose, and looked very much like a curvier version of Sherlock in the way she held herself. Her height was intimidating, even without the designer black heels that came to rest just at her ankles (Gucci, John failed to notice). Though John wasn't exactly a tall man, he found himself feeling even shorter than usual under the ice of the woman's condescending glare. She had a black purse that was obviously from a high-end designer that the young man didn't recognise (to all interested parties, it was a Hermes bag).

All in all, she screamed money and power, and unlike Sherlock she didn't make any effort to hide it. Instead she seemed to wield it as a living weapon, lashing out at everything silently with her cool gaze as she took in the state of the dorm before her. Her eyes seemed to turn even the smallest speck of dirt on the floor into a mountain of trash, and John's laptop (which he had bought second-hand but still had been of better quality) might as well have been a hamster running on a wheel.

Brushing past John without even the slightest greeting or glance, the woman marched across the hardwood with brisk, efficient paces. She seated herself down with a smoothing of her skirt as she hiked one leg over her other knee, twirling a wooden-handled brolly idly in her fingers. Her storm-grey eyes finally acknowledged John Watson's presence as he stomped into the living room, preparing to give this strange woman a piece of his mind.

However, he never got the chance as her smooth voice cut over his without the barest hint of remorse. Mycah's eyes never strayed from John's face, but her lips curled upwards in the slightest hint of contempt.

"Is my dear sister in?"

...

Sherlock woke to the sound of Gucci shoes hitting the hardwood floor in the living room, jarring her instantly in to full on fight-or-flight mode as her hands tightened themselves against her sheets. At the realization that it was her sister though, she relaxed with a small scowl pursing her lips as she considered going back to sleep. The sound of the kettle being put on told her that Mycah however would not be so easily deterred, and with a low curse she sighed.

It would be unfair to force John to suffer under her older sister's command.

Plus, she was kind of itching for a fight.

Deciding that getting her blood going would be more enjoyable than having her sibling drag her out of bed; she pulled the white sheet around her rake-thin body and stalked down the hall, coming to a stop in the living room.

Mycah was seated in John's usual spot, a cuppa being placed onto the table reluctantly for her by Sherlock's roommate. For a moment Sherlock took a fierce kind of pleasure in how obviously unimpressed John was with her older sister's arrogance, noting how he did not offer any sugar or biscuits to go with the tea. If Mycah noticed the teen's quiet hints that she was unwelcome in his room she ignored them, thanking John amicably as she leaned forward to take the handle of the cup into her hands. She sipped the tea daintily, as if she couldn't feel Sherlock's eyes boring a hole into the back of her neck.

The younger girl stalked forward, heedless of John's sigh at her attire (or lack of) as she came to stand in front of her sister. Sherlock's face was a mask of thunder.

"Mycah." She said neutrally, clipping her words so that the _'c'_ in her sister's name was spat as opposed to just stated. John felt as he took a seat unobtrusively by the desk where his laptop sat that perhaps he shouldn't have answered the door at all.

"Sherlock, _dear._" Mycah seemed unconcerned about Sherlock's rage, purring her words as if she wasn't being mentally flayed alive by the girl before her.

Sherlock nearly flinched at the endearment, her hands balling into fists at her sides as her lip curled in a snarl of fury.

"How have you been?" Mycah inquired politely.

Sherlock ignored her and turned as if to escape back to her bedroom from her sister's searching look. The darkly-curled girl glared back with equal vitriol, electricity crackling between them dangerously. There was a tension that filled the room as neither allowed themselves to look away. John felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as he watched the two of them, still as statues and just as cold. He felt like if he tried to diffuse the situation, he might end up being the one on the chopping block. Still, he also felt uncomfortable leaving Sherlock alone with this person. He wasn't entirely sure he trusted the elder Holmes, and quite frankly he was more than a little bit worried about his mad roommate. She seemed to be contemplating homicide as she glared down at her sister with enough hatred to kill small mammals.

"Should I leave?" He asked awkwardly, secretly hoping that the answer would be _'yes'_. Much to his disappointment, he found the elder Holmes held him in place with just a few words, still not bothering to tear her eyes away from the staring match in which she was currently engaged.

"No, please stay." Mycah said. John slumped forward defeatedly, resigning himself to the headache that would undoubtedly form after this meeting. He half expected Sherlock to make some kind of quick retort at her sister's casual order, but she was strangely silent. Only her gray eyes narrowed, her full lips pursing in distaste.

Mycah and Sherlock spent a long moment staring at each other in utter silence. John squirmed the entire time in his seat, unable to leave and yet not quite comfortable enough to stay. When the dam finally broke, Sherlock was the first to speak. Her voice dripped with boredom, but under it was an edge that was unmistakable.

"What are you doing here, Mycah?"

"Do I need a reason to visit my baby sister?" The elder Holmes fiddled with her umbrella, finally breaking away from her little sister's gaze to glance at her manicured fingers critically. They were painted a deep shade of blue, and when Mycah flicked her gaze over to John the young man saw how they made her eyes seem to glow.

"Yes, unless we're now engaging in regular family _fiestas." _Sherlock snapped."Tell me why you're here or _go away _you fat git!"

Most men would cower at Sherlock's tone, but John was hardly surprised when Mycah didn't even seem remotely fazed. She maintained an aura of indifference as she stopped fiddling with her brolly to reach for her cup again, taking a long drink of tea before she once again resumed her conversation.

"I wanted to ask you once again if you would accept Mummy's invitation." Setting down her cup with a faint _'chink', _she folded her hands in her lap diplomatically.

"You _know_ how it always upset her when you didn't come home for the holidays." She wasn't surprised when Sherlock straightened, looking like a peacock with her feathers ruffled as she responded with vehemence.

"_I _upset her? I think that when you –"

"You're coming."

Mycah interrupted, raising a hand for silence even as she downed the rest of her tea. She carried on, oblivious to her sister's splutters of outrage even as she rose to straighten her impeccable jacket and fix her hair.

"The 19th. Do _try_ not to be late, Sherlock. And bring Watson – you know how Mummy likes to see a new boy in the family now and again."

Sherlock by way of response stalked over to the threshold angrily, throwing open the door for her sister and growling an enraged _"OUT!" _at the top of her lungs. Mycah calmly complied, tipping her chin once in John's direction before primly marching out the door. Her umbrella swung daintily in one hand, and she used it to keep her sister from shoving her out the door before she could pause and offer one final word of parting.

"Take care, sister."

And for a moment, Mycah's eyes were not quite as cold as John had thought they were. They softened into something akin to pity, and Sherlock found a strange lump forming a knot in her throat as she saw it. Her voice was rough and unyielding as she slammed the door in her sister's face, the sound of the lock clicking into its spot not nearly as satisfying as it should be.

"And _stay_ out!"

...

Sherlock strutted back to the living room (because even though it was a trait she absolutely abhorred on her older sister, she couldn't help but strut when she was wearing only sheets) fully intent on heading back to bed. She was fully fed up with her sister's meddling ways, and how everyone seemed insistent on the idea that she should be cautious and get help. She didn't _need _any help! And even if she did, she would _never _stoop so low as to ask the likes of _Mycah. _Foolishness! The very idea made her want to drink bleach or claw her eyes out with a spoon!

Pacing restlessly across the floor, she barely noticed John sitting down in the corner. The blonde teen sighed to himself as he watched the tall girl pace and twirl about in circles, muttering abuse under her breath. She narrowly avoided colliding into anything as usual in her aggressive pace, the long sheet trailing behind her like a white bridal train.

For a moment, John wondered what it would be like to see Sherlock in something like a dress. Not even a wedding gown, just something... classy and nice. Normally, she couldn't be arsed to even put on clothes, and that alone was a whole other kettle of fish that the young man really didn't want to get into. Had Sherlock ever even worn lipstick before? Or gone dancing? Her entire family, or at least the members of it that he had seen, all appeared to be so aloof and cold. An image of a lonely little girl, trying to spin to a pop song all alone filled his mind and sent the strangest pang of sadness through him. John didn't know much about Sherlock's childhood, but he believed everyone deserved a chance to dance with someone else at least once in their lives.

His thoughts were cut off rather abruptly as Sherlock, finally testing her luck to its absolute limit, crashed violently against the coffee table.

Several things happened then. First of all she tripped. It was only a matter of time after all; the girl was only so coordinated and was a might distracted to begin with. She tumbled forward as the sheet slipped from her thin shoulders and fell away, followed closely by her balance. Dark curls flying up behind her like a cape, she hit the ground hard with a low _thud._

Secondly; John sprang to his feet quickly, the question of _"Are you all right?"_ already hovering at his lips.

Last, he froze as the sheet settled completely on the floor, and for the first time he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's pale back.

She didn't get back up, the thought not foremost on her mind. Instead her hands scrambled for the sheet, yanking at the white fabric until it was covering her like a cloak and hiding the damning marks from those dark blue eyes. Sherlock prayed in that split second that anything, _anything _would happen to distract her roommate. To divert his attention so that his eyes wouldn't fill with the disgust she knew would show, so that she wouldn't have to face his probing questions and anger. She could see it now, the possibilities of how this could play out hovering in her head and playing like a film.

"_You freak! Why would you let someone do this to you?"_

"_You get off on it, don't you?"_

"_Goodbye Sherlock. I can't be around this anymore. It's too weird."_

"_Whore."_

She closed her eyes, shutting her Mind-Palace as it tried to tear her apart with words unsaid. Sherlock didn't dare look up as she curled the sheet about her protectively, feeling numb as she stared at her lap. Surely John would deduce. Surely he would see how weak she was.

Surely, he would leave her.

Sentiment, damn it all.

It would be sentiment in the end that would make her lose her mind. Bring her to the brink of breaking. Sherlock couldn't breathe.

It was already too late. She knew it.

John saw.

Her back was a pale canvas covered in old scars, like spider webs arcing out in violent patterns across her delicate spine. Like fireworks they were an assortment of colours, from palest white to angry, pulsing red. A few looked like they had only just stopped bleeding, and John felt his breath fall short as a surprising wave of anger overtook him.

For a second, he had to remind himself forcefully to stay where he stood, to not frighten Sherlock. The raven-haired girl was uncharacteristically silent, and she crouched frigidly on the floor as if she could will herself to disappear if she only tried hard enough. She winced as the sheet brushed past her shoulders, where there were six angry red welts that contrasted sharply with her skin lining her scapulae like a ring of thorns. They looked painful, and John's medical knowledge could tell that they hadn't been treated properly. The thought made him grit his teeth. Whoever did this to Sherlock, they'd better pray that he didn't meet them in public.

The teen couldn't figure out what distressed him more, the fact that he had already become so attached to his mad roommate or Sherlock's complete silence as she stared at her hands like they were the most interesting thing in the world.

Compelled by an unfamiliar pull in his gut, John stepped forward and offered his hand, covering her pale fingers with his own. Sherlock startled at first, chin snapping up to look at him in shock and suspicion. She is met with John's pained but smiling face, looking not angry at her, but just sad. She looked at him, taking in the depth in those eyes and in that split second, Sherlock felt herself mentally tell him everything she couldn't say in words.

In her gaze, she whispered about Irene. She murmured about the cocaine, the rush and the pain it brought her as she went tumbling down from its high. She muttered to him about the incessant _noise _that never ended in her mind, the constant stream of information. She told him about the times she wondered if people were right, if she was broken. If her older sister would be better off without her, if everyone would be. If anyone would miss her if she disintegrated into the oblivion that called her to destruction.

And she got one, silent answer in return.

One thing she could deduce from the shape of his smile as he gently helped her to her feet.

_I would._

And for once, Sherlock couldn't even think of a sassy comment to fight back with.

John Watson in that moment could have asked her for the world, and she would have destroyed armies to get it for him.

She left him like that, standing in the living room. There was nothing to say, because Sherlock could not change. She didn't have it in her anymore. No one could really save her, and she knew that all too well. Though John would try, because that was his instinct, he would fail.

Sherlock just didn't have the heart to tell him.

She walked to her bedroom and curled up in bed, falling asleep almost instantly. She would stay sleeping for another solid ten hours.

Her thoughts were a mess, but kept focusing back on one thought.

_I need more._

But more of _what_, even she didn't know.

…

Ed van Coon wasn't a teacher at St. Bart's. Nope – not at all. He was a secretary, and he made next to nothing pushing papers and listening to parents complain over their children's allergies and various detentions. As a drug dealer, however, he made a lot more.

It hadn't shocked him one bit when his first client had been the notorious bad-girl Sherlock Holmes. She had come to him shortly after her enrolment, deducing him for what he was with that disconcerting way she had about her even while offering to pay him double his regular amount. Though she had been young and was still young even as a regular customer, she had held herself like an adult. He had found himself unable to deny her anything as like a steamroller she charged through all of his excuses and defences, coercing him through his initially reluctant feelings.

It had felt... well, _wrong_ making an addict out of someone who was barely more than a child. Though drug dealers usually didn't have many scruples, Eddie had kept the small part of pride in himself up until then that he hadn't sold to anyone under sixteen. Yet Sherlock broke him, wore him down with threats and callous observations until he had been fit to strangle her instead of letting her get high. He had finally thrown his hands up in the air and given in, muttering _"If you want to ruin your life, fine with me!" _In his darkest nightmares, he still recalled the totally unrepentant smile that she had rewarded him with in response.

Still, it almost made him sad to give the cocaine to her. But as he drove home, he reflected that he rather liked having the heat on when he went home.

After all, money in the end talked louder than even the strongest sense of morality.

…

For the fifth time, Sherlock checked her watch as her foot tapped impatiently on the pavement. Where was Van Coon?

A snarl of annoyance passed her lips as she shoved her hands in her coat pockets, glaring at the unforgiving brick of the west wing of the school. She had tucked herself into one of the many back-alley pockets that had once probably been used for some kind of schoolyard game, but now was just lined with cigarette butts and graffiti. This had been their agreed meeting point for about a year now, and normally Eddie was more punctual. Part of Sherlock knew she was also more wired than she would be normally, the events of last night leaving her jittery and looking over her shoulder in case a blonde head should pass by.

John would be suspicious if she didn't soon return. Though they hadn't talked about the night before and he hadn't pushed her, Sherlock knew she was walking a thin line. On the one hand, John obviously itched to ask about how she had gotten the marks. The entire morning as he had made her tea he had been shooting her nervous glances out of the corner of his eye. Still, he was respectful enough of her privacy that he hadn't gone and told a teacher, or worse Mycah. She didn't want to think about the potential circumstances if John found out her little….habit.

With the manic, worried way he had been behaving all morning, John would probably end up tying her to the flat out of misplaced fear for her safety. The thought sent a brief smile to Sherlock's face before she determinedly squashed the wave of amusement that thought brought her.

When van Coon finally deigned to show up, he gave her his usual pitying look when he took her money. However he didn't stop her from snatching the zipped plastic bag of white powder and glass bottles from his outstretched hand.

Scowling, Sherlock shoved the baggie in her coat pocket and walked back to the dormitory without a word in his direction. She was already starting to feel the familiar tingling all along her arms.

What time was it?

Surely past midnight.

Was it…Saturday? Sunday?

Whatever.

It didn't really matter to her.

She didn't have class tomorrow.

There was nothing to stop her.

...

At midnight, Sherlock wordlessly crept out of bed, making sure to be soundless as her feet brushed the hardwood lest she wake John. She slipped on her robe, tucking it over her shoulders and pulling the knot tightly across her waist. In the dark, she was a shadow that padded along quickly and quietly to the bookshelf across her room. Her fingers hovered over the spines of each tome, finding the right volume by feel and memory alone.

Pulling a thick rendition of _'Charles Darwin's Theory of Evolution'_ out of the top shelf, she turned and settled herself back down by the tank of the shrimp. Their soft glow haloed Sherlock's face like a torch as she opened the hollowed out book, pulling out the syringe and other things eagerly as her body began to itch for the call. Her hands were deftly capable as they wrapped a tourniquet about her arm, tightening it firmly as she picked a vial of seven percent and held it up to the light of her shrimp to see. It glittered translucently, promising all kinds of relief that made her tremble with want. Her mouth went dry as her thoughts began to chant, a physical cry of

_More, more, more._

In the end, she couldn't resist its call.

Couldn't deny its claim.

Sherlock was addicted, but not just to the cocaine.

She was addicted to _this_, this on edge feeling of being constantly in danger.

Constantly alive.

She needed to shine, needed to burn brighter.

Needed to feel the heat of the world bursting into flames as it would speed up with her mind for a few precious hours.

And so, she temporarily left thoughts of John Watson, and the fragile hope of being saved, behind.

They vanished with the plunge of a syringe.

...

John found Sherlock to be extraordinarily agreeable Sunday morning. She didn't eat any of the food he offered her (typical), but she didn't scowl or snap at him either (as she normally did before at least two cups of coffee). John found himself rather cheerily wishing he knew why she was so pleasant, if only so he could try and maybe make it happen more often.

Sex, maybe?

Did Sherlock Holmes finally get laid? (After all that was when John was at his happiest)

No, she was too unattached.

Unless her relationship with Irene had something to do with that…?

That would at least partly explain the whip marks on her back.

But it didn't explain why Sherlock had looked so... panicked when she had accidentally let him seen. People weren't usually ashamed of sex...

These thoughts plagued John for several days.

Meanwhile, things were good for Sherlock – she didn't need to visit Irene again, not for another week or two. Her world was spinning as fast as she was, and she still had John. Everything was right, everything was perfect. All she could long for would be a nice murder and she'd be on cloud nine. She even caught herself whistling as she walked down the hall to her next class.

The thought alone of not having to do…that…put a smile on her face that was decidedly hard to subdue.

And then the bloody horrific battlefield that was Christmas at the Holmes began.


	7. Chapter 7

**A HUGE thank you to my lovely beta, twistedthicket1. If you haven't read her stuff, do so, she's incredible. Okay! Sorry it's a day late! My house is a mess and a nightmare because everything is being packed, so I'm hiding in a closet (literally) and freaking the ! #$ out. Anyways, I won't post a new one for some time. I'm really sorry. I'm not taking an official hiatus, but I do need some time to settle in to London.**

It had taken John _weeks_ to find Sherlock a Christmas present. Then again, perhaps it was his own fault, getting to doing his shopping list only a few weeks away from the big day. He found himself wandering the bustling streets of the city with all of the other crazy people who waited until snow fell to actually get their loved ones anything, trying not to lose it as he was subjected to obnoxious Christmas Carols mixed in with the screams of tired children pulling on their parents' arms. It seemed that with the holiday cheer, there was also a fair number of Scrooges lingering about. He had to stop twice to avoid being run over by overly-zealous cab drivers, and once a thirteen-year old kid on a skateboard had flipped him a two-fingered salute before cutting him off. The teen's patience had been worn to its absolute limit as the hours had dragged on, and sighing in defeat, he had almost concluded that it was impossible. Nothing fit his mad friend even_ remotely. _Things that did, he could already assume Sherlock owned for herself.

Books? No, she could always guess where the plot was going and found them sub-consequently boring.

A new film on DVD? No, Sherlock argued with enough crap telly to drive John mad...

...Explosives?

Better in a strange way, but still. _God NO._

How do you shop for the girl who has it all, without seeming to have a crush on her?

Seriously, it was _impossible_, and he bemoaned the fact that he couldn't just call Harry and ask what it was that girls liked_. _Because Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary _girl _(That was when he decided to stop thinking, as he was getting dangerously close to going down a road he had no intention of getting tangled in).

It was only when he had very nearly given up hope that he happened to stumble upon a little jewellers on the corner of an alley. John nearly passed it by, until a glimmer of something caught his eye and held it in the front window.

It was a little... _pricier_ than what he normally would have spent on a friend, but he supposed that Sherlock was unique even when it came to shopping for her. He bought it if only so he could justify his escape from the fifth rendition he had heard today of _"Dona Nobis Pacem"._

While Sherlock was a certified genius, she was forced to confess to herself that she had absolutely no _clue_ what to get John. But, unlike her friend, she had managed to be a little more organized about her shopping and allowed herself plenty of time_._ She'd gotten quite lucky (Much to her surprise and dawning delight) when she was out shopping for chemicals for the shrimp's water and stumbled upon the perfect gift. At least, she hoped it was perfect.

For some reason, Christmas mattered to her a lot more this year than it had in years before.

She tried not to dwell on the persistent voice that screamed in her head that she analyze too closely the reasons for her change of heart. Still, she made sure to leer at as many people as possible on her way back to the school. The cheery tune of _"Mr. Grinch" _was, though ironic, strangely suitable to the blackness of her mood amongst tinsel and fairy lights glittering around the mall.

...

John had been almost 100% sure that Mycah had been kidding about bringing him to the Holmes Christmas party (Well, as sure as anyone _could _be when they were trying to read the elder Holmes' thoughts).

He would have been perfectly happy to spend it here at St. Bart's with Mrs. Hudson eating her overly sweet baked goods and relaxing in a relatively Sherlock-free room. After all, under _no_ circumstances was he about to go back home. But then, on the morning of the 24th (the first day of Christmas Holiday), Sherlock came storming into the room in a sea of dark curls and coat and ordered him without the slightest hint of it being a suggestion to pack his bags. At one time, he might've argued. Then again, at one time he might've actually considered the fact that Sherlock had ordered him even while being covered from head to toe in some kind of green slime _abnormal, _and yet it barely phased him as he sipped his tea and returned to his blog.

So he listened without preamble and got to packing.

20 minutes later, they were standing on the curb, freezing and waiting impatiently for Mycah's car to come around. The car arrived exactly on time but lacked a certain British official. The two companions sat in posh leather seats side by side, perfectly silent as the snow fell like cotton balls heavily on the world outside, turning the city into a fairy land of fragile and beautiful things to someday be melted by the turn of spring, but not tonight. Sherlock's face was silhouetted softly by the light of it, her pale features seeming to fit right in with the delicate and frosty scenery behind her. The dark curls that tumbled around her face for just a moment seemed to make her seem less sharp and angular, and her lips were deep red in the light. Cherry-coloured like a fresh English rose. Then her pale eyes roved to John's face, and the teen found to his shock that he had been staring. He dropped his gaze away, willing his thoughts to turn a different route.

He was relieved when his phone suddenly buzzed.

_**From: H. Watson**_  
_**To: J. Watson**_  
_**Time: 11:05 A.M.**_

**Are u coming home?**

It took John exactly two seconds to reply no.

…

It was nearly two hours later when they arrived at the Holmes Mansion, and they couldn't have arrived sooner. Sherlock had very nearly thrown her phone out of boredom, and John could see that every second they prolonged the inevitable meeting with her relatives the detective became more and more stormy-eyed. She all but dragged him out of the car when they finally parked, and only slowed down when John nearly tripped on a sheet of black ice. It gave him just a second to look around in curiosity, and that was when the teen's mouth fell open in open shock. Sherlock appeared completely unfazed as she walked towards the house, but John stood gaping not unlike a codfish as he struggled to make sense of the overly posh scene before him with his own poorer childhood playing at the back of his mind.

It was a Victorian style mansion, and stood stark and solitary as the only building for what appeared to be acres around. There were signs of elaborate gardens having encircled it during spring, but now the plants slept with the cold and offered an elegant green and white background. With a semicircular driveway paved in small grey stones, the driveway seemed to glitter like a child's dream, completely cleared of snow. In the centre where one would have expected to maybe see a fountain, there was an enormous ice sculpture of a tree that arched in translucent beauty high above their heads, spreading a canopy of paper-thin leaves.

Sherlock walked past it without a second glance while John gawked at it, neck straining as he struggled to take in the entire expanse of branches weaving themselves above his head. There were six stairs leading in pristine straightness to the front door made of black marble, once again completely free of even the slightest speck of snow. The whole mansion was made of dark brown bricks with several windows, including what looked like a tower.

"Do you see the room at the top, the one with the purple drapes?" Sherlock pointed to it with a careless pale hand, knocking John out of his bemusement. He craned his neck to where she directed, catching the vague outline of an arching window frame. It was the highest room in the house, perched precariously at the peak of the house like Sherlock sometimes perched on the arm of the couch. Hunched like a gargoyle. John couldn't help but chuckle, thinking to himself that it very much suit her.

"That's my room." She murmured lowly, feigning indifference even as she cast a strangely searching look in his direction. "I used to climb out onto that ledge and onto the roof to read." Her hand pointed to a ledge that must've been extremely dangerous to get to, as it stood out from the rest of the tiled roof like a lone island. John couldn't help but wonder how many times Sherlock had nearly come close to breaking her neck getting to it and shuddered.

"That must be a spectacular view." He finally said, still taking in the mansion's elegance even as images of a younger Sherlock climbing the frozen ivy that he could see must embrace the walls in spring. He ccould imagine it, messy curls flying in the wind, knees scuffed and eyes far too bright for someone so young. John wondered if Sherlock had been softer when she was younger, or if she had always been as angular verbally as she was physically. The image of a little girl drawling _"Bored." _as she lay sprawled on a ridiculously posh sofa made him have to suppress a smile.

"It is." Was all she offered by way of response. Then

"Come along; John, it's starting to snow again." With a flair of her coat, she turned and led him up the stairs, shoulders stiff with apprehension over the night to come. The front door itself was a spectacle: it was enormous, solid oak and gilded with a silver knocker in the shape of a raven's head clasping the ring.

_Like something you would expect to see at Hogwarts._

John thought, and he could've sworn that Sherlock gave him a look that roughly said something along the lines of _stop comparing me to fictional wizards John, honestly. You're so simple sometimes._

She rang the bell and a loud chime sounded through the entire house, echoing over the muffled sound of chatter from inside.

The door was not opened by a maid; like John half expected, but by a woman who bore striking resemblance to Sherlock in appearance and stature. She had long red-brown curls that framed a sharply beautiful face, and spoke once being quite something to look at, in her younger years. A long, silver dress that glittered like trapped starlight demanded to be looked at as it gathered and swept around her body in just the right way to be entrancing while still maintaining classy. There was no doubt in John's mind as he looked at it that it probably cost more than his entire medical education. It brought out the striking clarity of the woman's silver-gray eyes as she smiled a surprisingly impish grin.

"Mummy." Sherlock dipped her chin by way of greeting. For all the warmth she didn't show Mycah, the detective made up for with her mother. They didn't hug, John would later learn that the Holmes didn't really do hugging, but instead exchanged a warm look that spoke volumes about their relationship.

"Mummy, this is John Watson." Sherlock turned and waved a hand to introduce John, who suddenly felt severely under-dressed. He tried not to flush, reaching out so he could shake her hand. Mrs. Holmes accepted the gesture gracefully, diamond earrings glittering almost as much as her eyes.

"John Watson, it's a pleasure to meet you. I am Violet Holmes. Please, come in. Your bags are already inside." Violet's voice was warm and rich, but it held just a hint of steel underneath it that sounded not unlike Mycah's usual tone. John guessed she was quite used to business affairs, and couldn't entirely shut off the instinctive Holmes urge to mask their emotions. However, he could tell she tried, and he reciprocated with a wide smile. She ushered the two of them in daintily and a man in a dark suit and tie took their coats. Sherlock treated all of this as a normal affair, grey-blue eyes putting a very put-upon expression of cheer even as her lip curled in distaste of the cheery music humming mutedly from further inside.

The inside was just as spectacular as the outside. Black marble shone with polished elegance as stairs led upstairs and there as a sitting room to John's left. To his right, a dark brown door where men in tuxedoes would enter and leave occasionally, carrying flutes of champagne that bubbled like liquid gold.

"Paul, would you take Mr. Watson and Sherlock up to their rooms please?" Violet asked a passing man with a velvet-red bow-tie.

"Certainly, ma'am." He turned smartly on his heels up the stairs and Sherlock followed. John took her lead after only a moment of hesitation.

Paul guided them down the many twisting and turning hallways, his low voice rattling off information about the plans for tonight as it became apparent that much of this had been rehearsed more than a few times over.

"Dinner will be served at 7:30; Mrs. Holmes will expect you at 6:00. I don't doubt Ms. Holmes left you something to wear?" He said.

"Ms. Holmes….do you mean Sherlock?" John asked. The man laughed slightly and shook his head.

"No, he means Mycah. I would wear what she tells you to. Personally I couldn't care less what people wear to this sorry excuse for 'family bonding time'." Sherlock offered by way of explanation, huffing as she crossed her arms sulkily over her chest.

"Ms. Holmes has also left you a dress, Sherlock." Paul said carefully, having become used to the younger Holmes' tempers. He warily waited for the dam to burst down on his head when Sherlock's expression dropped completely to a mix of horror and despair, and then it was John's turn to laugh. They came to the first room as Sherlock spluttered and cursed dark profanities over her sister's grave, Paul giving a sort of nervous nod towards John as he pointed at the polished handle of the door. The teen spared one _"be good." _look at Sherlock before he turned away. The glare she gave back was not encouraging.

"I guess I'll see you at six then. Ta, Paul." Then, figuring it would be best just to get this part over with so that he could save Paul from Mycah's wrath if not Sherlock's, John opened the door to his room.

...

He was somewhat taken aback by the sight before him.

The bed was _huge_.

It had a tasteful black and white décor, lacing trellises up towards the cream-white pillows. The floors were a rich reddish-black, and a desk perched in one corner in graceful solitude. His bag was beside the bed and there was a suit (Gucci John for once did _not _fail to notice) hanging in the open closet. The young man shook his head in wonder, muttering _"Holmeses."_ Under his breath before moving to unbutton his shirt. If he was right, he wanted to be ready before Sherlock. At least then, he wouldn't be only half-dressed when the shit hit the fan.

And it would.

It always, _somehow _would.

To say Sherlock was pissed that Mycah decided to choose her dress was an understatement, but luckily, she had come prepared for this eventuality. The dress Mycah had selected was deep reddish maroon that highlighted absolutely _nothing._ The young woman rolled her eyes at it, swearing that her older sister only ever seemed to have a lapse in fashion sense when _she _was involved. With a sniff she tossed the gown aside, stalking over to the end of her room to route through her luggage.

The dress _she _had put in her bag however was long, with a slit that went almost right up to her hip. She held it up between her hands with a flourish, cat-like grin stretching across her features in satisfaction with what she was envisioning. It was bright red with a lacy back that zigzagged and covered the old and new scars tastefully. The neck made a plunging dip down to her sternum, just on the edge between racy and shameful. It accented curves and angles she definitely had and felt no shame in covering up.

She showered quickly and put it on, adjusting it this way and that until she deemed it perfection in the mirror. Drying her wild curls into some kind of order, a silver hair bow held her wild cow-licks from her face. Sherlock did her make up as best she could, because she had no skill in that area and normally let Irene do it when she was forced to attend events like these. This time, however, she had felt no will to invite the blue eyed dominatrix.

Taking some of Irene's advice however, she used a lot of black, because she did know that it brought out her eyes and made them appear bigger than they were. She also applied a little red lipstick, keeping the shade dark but not flashy so she wouldn't feel like a clown. When she felt she'd done herself up as best she could, she put on her glittery green pumps (an early Christmas gift from Irene) and smoothed the front of the dress down, feeling almost a little…nervous. For a moment she had a fit of indecision as she wondered to herself what John would see if he looked at her (someone beautiful? A clumsy excuse for a girl? Something else?).

But she squashed that feeling down and refused to acknowledge it, even as she turned away from the mirror. Foolish, to worry what others thought of her.

Sherlock did her best to ignore the tiny voice in her head that whispered that it was much too late now to pretend John's opinion didn't matter to her. The whisper that told her that she had lost that mask the moment she had begun to see her blond roommate not as an enemy, but as part of her work.

...

Sherlock picked up John's gift and upon arriving at the dining room (which served part time as a ballroom) and tucked it at her seat in order to keep it hidden. Paul as he passed by littered with trays of food on one arm gave her a knowing smirk that she returned amiably. She stood amongst the crowds of people and did her best not to fidget even as she kept half an eye out for a certain head of blonde hair.

Unfortunately, Mycah caught her after a few minutes, just as more people started to enter the room.

"Sherlock." She greeted neutrally, the sound of her heels clipping against the marble floor with sharp clarity.

"Mycah." The detective returned with equal blandness, hoping to escape having to interact with her sister if she was as boring and unobtrusive as humanly possible.

Mycah was wearing a blue-ish silver halter top dress, with glitter along the neckline and an empire waist full of square, glittery things that shimmered underneath the lights of the chandeliers. Even Sherlock had to admit that the blue brought out the incredibly rare eye colour they shared, and that the particular shade complimented her dark ginger curls that for once hung loose and tumbled down her back and shoulders.

"You look good." Sherlock said, just to throw her off. Her sister frowned as Sherlock stalked away, smirking to herself in satisfaction as she watched out of the corner of her eye how Mycah stiffened slightly in agitation. However before the elder Holmes could chase after her sister and say something biting, Lestrade entered the room. Sherlock watched as she seated herself in front of the blazing fireplace as he caught sight of Mycah, his jaw literally dropping so far that the detective laughed out loud. She gazed on as Mycah smoothed her expression into one of happiness and flirted away with Lestrade, while Sherlock chuckled darkly to herself. The warmth of the fire made her slightly less annoyed to be here, and the smells of cinnamon and holly filled her nose. People from every walk of the world were gathered in the room around her, and for once she didn't feel the need to deduce them. She was too worked up, wanting to catch sight of John somewhere in the crowd. Somehow, surrounded by all of these people, the craving subsided ever so briefly, replaced with a different hunger that Sherlock wasn't sure she could totally identify. Yet it was just as powerful in its call, and it called for John like a siren. She got herself a drink from one of the passing trays and sipped at it, eyes roving about for a face that was more familiar to herself than the back of her hand. She'd never admit that when Mycah had invited her friend along to this party, she had been secretly thrilled. If only to have someone to suffer alongside her in sympathy.

...

Pocketing the small box that held Sherlock's gift, John spared one more look in the mirror in his room before deciding that it would do. He himself really wasn't much to look at, but at least the suit was nice. Mycah had good taste.

_Not that you're dressing up for anyone in particular, are you Watson?_

His thoughts, traitorous and mocking made the tips of his ears flush pink before he stubbornly squashed them into dust. Stupid. Chances were that Sherlock wouldn't even notice what he was wearing. If he really wanted her attention, the best thing he could've done would be to murder someone in cold blood. Then at least she might focus, if only to figure out if he was a five or an eight on the "interesting crime meter". He sighed to himself, pulling at his tie fruitlessly one more time before he walked into the room Paul had indicated earlier. He shuffled about aimlessly amongst the crowds of people, feeling awkward and out of place until a familiar figure caught his eye with some surprise. He made his way over to Molly Hooper, who was standing a small ways away with a drink in her hands and a cheery expression that turned into curiosity when she caught sight of John.

"John, what are you doing here?" she asked, fidgeting with her drink absently as she offered him a small but warm smile. She looked nice, calmer than she usually did. It was a welcome change from her usual discomfort. He grinned, wondering how uncomfortable he must look if Molly wasn't even nervous and she looked a little bit twitchy. He wouldn't have been surprised to find his knees shaking.

"Sherlock invited – well, not really," he corrected to himself, lifting up his fingers to make air quotations. "_Mycah_ quote unquote invited me."

Molly laughed, the sound understanding and shining like a Christmas light. She gestured to an older couple, presumably her parents, as she explained why she was here.

"My family and hers are good friends. I've known Mycah since we were children. Even when we were little, she was like that."

John chuckled, imagining a little Mycah ordering people about, waving an umbrella much too big for her like a sword. It was hilarious.

"The Christmas dinners must have been awful."

Molly grinned, sipping her drink with a spark in her eyes.

"You have no idea. There are times I wonder why our parents didn't have us all shipped to Switzerland. Sherlock at once point nearly poured the entire contents of the chocolate fondue fountain on top of the Ambassador of Spain's head because the man called her '_pequeña'."_

"That does sound like Sherlock." John agreed amiably, smirking like a cat that caught the canary. They continued on for a few minutes, exchanging Holmes Horror Stories back and forth. The blonde teen found himself using an almost affectionate tone whenever he talked of the raven-haired girl's eccentricities, and nearly lost track of time when Molly broke off from whatever it was she was about to say.

And – _oh_."

Her mouth fell open slightly, and looked across the room with wide eyes that made John turn instinctively for any sign of danger.

It was when he laid eyes on her, that his brain momentarily shut down.

To say she looked gorgeous was an understatement. The red brought out the paleness of her skin, like blood on fresh parchment, draping over her body to leave just enough to the imagination to leave a person wondering what was hidden beneath. It hugged her body so that every movement seemed graceful without being forced, and smoky eyes looked up at him from under dark lashes, smouldering with intelligence. The neck plunged deeply, revealing more snow white skin, and Sherlock paused when she caught sight of John so that her curls bobbed forward. The bare expanse of her throat was elegant and made her appear startlingly vulnerable. She wasn't wearing a necklace (John felt this to be a stroke of serendipity), so maybe that had something to do with it.

He stared and gawked for a total of twenty seconds before finally snapping out of it. When he did, he looked over to see there was a love-struck look in Molly's hazel eyes as she quickly looked away and finished off her drink. The brunette surprised him as she leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"If you don't flirt with her, I _will _and I will be verbally eviscerated." And with that she shook her head, seeming to clear her features of any lingering affection. She walked away without another word.

It was then that Sherlock caught sight of him and strutted over, walking with all of her usual grace even in heels. John briefly noticed her glittery green pumps, and how they made her eyes seem to glow.

"Please, save me." She whined when she sidled up beside him, rolling her eyes dramatically and rubbing at her temples in frustration. At that moment, John would have saved her from just about anything. "If I hear _one more_ person talk about how proud they are of Mycah, I will go on a homicidal spree. They'll never find the body..."

"I can relate." John said sympathetically, snapping out of his daze with Sherlock's promise of murder. He smiled, realizing it was still her, underneath all of the make-up and forced charm. Somehow, that made a warm feeling crawl along his spine. He offered her a drink, which she accepted happily.

"Harriet?" she asked, downing the champagne with surprising efficiency. John shuddered slightly, reminded somewhat guiltily of his sister's plea to come home.

"Indeed."

"Christmas. It's just another word for family-induced torture." She spat, fiddling with her silver hair-bow in distaste. John shrugged, admiring to himself the way she tossed her raven curls.

"I don't know, it has to be good for something..."

Sherlock looked at him then, noticing the flush that had spread across her friend's face. It was odd, but it didn't irritate her, like it would have on another person. On John, the shy blush made him seem younger than he was, and somehow oddly... adorable. Plus, she had to admit she was having rather inappropriate thoughts surrounding his tie, or rather taking it off him. That was when she realized her mind was running away again, and she quickly looked about for something else to reflect on. What she saw did the trick, although it soured her mood considerably.

"Don't look now, but behind you is my very annoying but somewhat important ex-boyfriend." Sherlock murmured into her glass, eyes darting anywhere but at the approaching figure in the corner of her vision. John looked anyways, peering curiously over his shoulder. A tall young man in a black suit and red waistcoat was approaching, dark blonde curls glinting richly from the chandelier lights. He had the look of somebody who did not care what others thought of him, but would be perfectly happy to listen to them complain. Sharp, light blue eyes eyed the people around him with distaste, but it was carefully masked by his shark-like smile as it played along his strong features. He was good-looking, but there was an element of edge to him that made an ugly emotion twist in John's gut. It took him a moment to face the fact that it was jealousy.

"And he's going to come talk to us, how wonderful." Sherlock sighed, watching as he made his way over towards them. Her expression made it very obvious that it was not wonderful at all, and rather quite a tragedy.

"Victor." She said mock-pleasantly, greeting the tall man as he smiled at her. And it suddenly struck John that she had said _boyfriend _and not _girlfriend_. He tried very hard to ignore just how hopeful that made him, even as he felt Sherlock subconsciously move closer towards his side.

"Sherlock." He intoned as kissed her pale cheek. John felt a possessive surge strike him all of a sudden, and he had to will himself to stay silent even as he watched the detective cringe slightly away from his touch. Sherlock resisted the urge to gag.

"It has been too long, darling. How have you been? And who is this, a new boyfriend?" Victor drawled, finally acknowledged John's presence coolly as the two of them sized each other up. John kept his back ramrod straight, jaw tightening as he curtly nodded his head in greeting.

"John Watson." He introduced himself.

"My boyfriend." Sherlock interrupted firmly. Her hand suddenly snaked around to grip his hand possessively. John's head went reeling and he found quite immediately that smiling was a little bit easier to manage. He noticed that Victor's grin appeared to become just a tad bit forced in reaction to the news, and tried to quell the bubbling feeling of victory inside his gut.

"It's good to see we've both moved on, in fact, my girlfriend is just over there. Dear-" He beckoned and a very familiar girl approached, smiling a crocodile's grin. Beside him, Sherlock stiffened minutely.

"Irene." Sherlock smiled and gave her…a hug? It resembled that, at least. Irene was barely clothed in a long backless dress that rivaled her skin for paleness and was accentuated in black lace that trailed over her bodice. From afar, she might as well be wearing black ivy, and little else.

"John." She murmured silkily, nodding at him. John just barely caught the look of something akin to betrayal on Sherlock's face before they were called for dinner by a ringing chime.

If there had ever been a time Sherlock would have been perfectly happy to die, it would have been right at the instant Victor had announced Irene as his girlfriend. Dinner went as awkwardly as one would have expected it to go when three equally wilful and intelligent people were put near each other. John did his best to censor, or at least water down, Sherlock's biting remarks and deductions as plate after plate of food was set in front of her and taken away untouched. Mycah stirred the pot and got her sister started right back up again just when it seemed to have calmed down. A cycle that went round in a circle, punctuated occasionally by some remark from Irene or Victor, which would do little to calm the detective's vitriol. When Sherlock finally_ did_ eat something, John nearly cried with relief.

Even if it was just a bread roll.

Dessert came around and John wasn't even surprised when Sherlock gave her plate an interested look. Her sweet tooth was something he'd been recently acquainted with by means of an extra-large bag of banana flavoured gummies disappearing mysteriously. He'd only found out it was Sherlock's doing when, in her sugar-high mind, wondered what would happen if you put eyeballs in the microwave. Mrs. Hudson had taken one step in the dorm and promptly walked out without a word while openly gagging.

John hadn't bought candy since, worrying over the safety of _**221 B.**_

He watched as Sherlock picked at a triple chocolate cake that probably would have made a normal person die of diabetes just looking at it and, just as Irene was about to say something (that would probably have been the last straw and would have resulted in a piece of cake being thrown at her barely there dress), the gifting began.

Somehow, it wasn't the organized affair John expected. The clock chimed midnight and the entire Holmes family (and other relevant guests) exploded in to cheers of 'Merry Christmas!' and started hugging and giving gifts. It was honestly touching, and therefore just slightly unnerving.

"John."

"Sherlock." The pair said at the same time, blinking in surprise then grinning as they looked at one another.

The detective had reached under her chair, pulling out a rectangular box wrapped with powder-blue paper. She was looking up at him, a slow flush crawling her cheeks in embarrassment. He gaze was almost... shy?

"Merry Christmas." Sherlock said quietly, shoving the box in his hands as if she was afraid he'd reject it. John opened the wrapping carefully, mind humming as it guessed what the gift could be. He came short when the last of the paper was pulled apart, his eyebrows rising in shock and wonder at what he held in his hands. Inside the scraps of wrapping was an amber, leather bound journal with a square, bright green gem set in the middle. He looked up at Sherlock wordlessly, at a loss at what to say. The detective seemed to take his silence as a cue to give a backhanded apology. She put on a mask of indifference, even while inside her chest her heart felt like it was plummeting. Did John not like the gift? Had she gotten it wrong after all? She shouldn't have bought anything to begin with...

"Blogging is tedious. If you don't like it –"

"Sherlock." He interrupted.

She peered at John in the eye and he cracked a wide smile, quelling her fears instantly.

"Thank you, it's beautiful." Sherlock blushed redly and ducked her head, staring at her lap. Her fingers entwined themselves, but she couldn't stop the small, overjoyed smile that flashed on her lips.

"Here." John slid the green and red wrapped box over the table, feeling a wave of unexpected nerves hit him even as he admired the red tinge to Sherlock's cheeks. It wasn't often he saw his friend come so undone and flustered.

"You really didn't need to get me anything." She blushed even more, mumbling under her breath.

"Nonsense." He said with a wave of his hand "Everyone needs to get_ something_ for Christmas."

He watched as she tore into the wrapping, peeling away layer after layer until she came to the square black box. She shot John an inquisitive look as she saw the insignia of the shop on the top, but he merely nodded at her to continue forward. Sherlock opened the velvety black box and gave a small gasp. It was a silver chain with the letter 'S' in elegant writing hanging as a charm from its metal links. Delicate links pieced together in a short circle just long enough to rest on the wearer's collar-bone. With trembling hands, she pulled it out of the cushion it rested on in the box. She looked back to John briefly and was rewarded with a full out grin that made the back of her neck feel warm like the sun.

Slowly, Sherlock undid the chain and put it around her neck. When it hung from her throat, John felt it made her outfit complete. Her eyes were wide, and for once, the detective seemed to be at a loss for words. She looked at her friend, at the face that no matter what would always smile at her at the end of the day. It didn't matter what she did, if she blew things up in the kitchen or spilled acid on all of his jumpers, even when Sherlock wanted to push him away. John stayed.

And the secrets she had been keeping welled to her lips, and suddenly, she just wanted to tell him. Wanted someone to _know. _Before she could do something she'd regret, she spoke.

"John, this is…." She paused. "Thank you." Sherlock whispered.

"Oh, come here you git." John wrapped her up in a hug and she could have cried for how warm and _real_ it felt.

They pulled apart and for one breathless moment, their lips were mere inches apart. Both of them stared at each other's mouths, wanting to make up for the distance with heat.

Acting on impulse, Sherlock came closer; her blue-grey eyes focused solely on John's gaze, and without speaking asked _is this ok._

His irises practically screamed his consent, blowing wide with want.

John's eyes kept flicking between her glossy red lips and pale gray stare.

He leaned in…

…then duty pulled Sherlock away as she heard the ever-familiar sound of Givenchy-clad feet approaching. She gave John a regretful look, as if to say _if only…_

At that moment, John hated Mycah Holmes with a passion.

...

The next five days at the Holmes residence were peaceful, if a little dull, with an electric undercurrent that sparked and crackled whenever John and Sherlock entered a room together. It was like some kind of twisted version of tag, both of them constantly darting just out of reach, drawn away by duties they couldn't deny. Both of them found it maddening, and Sherlock could swear the entirety of the universe was suddenly conspiring to ensure that she didn't have a moment alone to herself with John. Her friend felt the same.

Then, on the morning of the 31st, when the snow made the entire lot look like a winter wonderland, John managed to catch his friend on the stairs and asked her a question on impulse. "Have you ever been in a snowball fight, Sherlock?" he asked. She frowned, confused as to why he was asking but thinking hard.

"No." she said finally. He knew he shouldn't be surprised, but he still had to keep an exasperated sigh off his lips. What kind of childhood did a Holmes get? It seemed the more he learned the more it made sense that Sherlock was as strange as she was. Not that he really minded.

"Come with me." He clasped her hand, pulling her along the hall to open the French double doors leading to the snow-covered lot and stepped outside. It was just cold enough that their breath came out in heavy fog, looking like the end of a smokestack. Sherlock resisted the urge to shiver. John pulled on his pale beige gloves and knelt, collecting a fistful of snow. She watched on somewhat perplexed, feeling very much out of her element.

"How do I –"

"Use the sticky snow." He noticed her awkwardness and walked over, showing her how to collect the right snow. "Like this." John pulled a large bundle together and presented a near-perfectly shaped ball, pristine and completely round. "You collect a few of them, find yourself a good hiding spot, and get the other person as totalled as possible." He finished.

"Okay then." Sherlock said doubtfully. It _sounded_ like science, but really she wasn't so sure she would be able to get it right. She'd never really played before in the snow _just _for the sake of playing. Although there had been one case when she had to build a snowman, but that had been a strange puzzle in itself. She tried to copy John's previous actions, gathering the snow in her hands and feeling it begin to soak through her gloves.

"Is this –" A snowy white ball hit her squarely in the face, sending frozen powder down the back of her neck. Sherlock blinked.

_Challenge accepted, John Watson._

This was how 30 minutes later, John found himself being tackled by a future consulting detective.

She grinned and dropped a large mound of snow on his face, getting some down his neck. He yelped, shivering as he made a decidedly unmanly noise and tried to dislodge her. However Sherlock wouldn't be so easily deterred, and merely continued to mush snow down his coat. Her laugh was positively demonic. Finally, he could take no more.

"I give up, you win!" he yelled, trying to shake the snow off his neck. She threw her head back and giggled an uncanny imitation of an evil genius. Just for that, he flipped her over and, surprised, she clung to his still frozen neck. And suddenly they weren't laughing, they could have been kissing. John looked for any sort of protest or complaint, and found only compliant pink lips.

It was almost comical when they were interrupted again. Mycah's voice was amused and sardonic as she opened the back door, as if she knew exactly what they had been about to do. Sherlock mentally vowed to put frogs in her shoes the next chance she got.

"If you're quite done wrestling in the snow, the party will start in one hour." she said with a toss of her dark ginger curls. Sherlock and John shared a look. Just one. And they knew exactly what they were going to do. This revenge would be even better. The elder Holmes' gaze narrowed in suspicion as both John and Sherlock's features rearranged themselves into overly-dramatic expressions of innocence.

"I suggest –" she was cut off by two snowballs flung in her direction, landing smack on her face and chest and sending cold crystals of ice dripping into her hair. A slow, horrified look crossed her face and John smothered a grin. Sherlock did no such thing, instead she laughed heartily, making any attempt at her friend keeping poker faced moot. Mycah, stiff-backed and decidedly furious, wiped the snow away from her neck.

"_Children. _Both of you." She spat, baring her teeth in annoyance. In return, Sherlock offered her a two-fingered salute. She giggled like a little girl when her elder sister stalked off, looking for once as carefree and innocent as John imagined she could be.

He tried not to let his chest ache when he thought of those marks on her back, and how haunted she had been when he had first laid eyes on her.

...

Getting inside was just as awkward and uncomfortable as one would imagine.

If you have ever been in a snowball fight, you know that you don't realize just how much snow you get covered in until you take off your coat. Then you're cold, soaked and thoroughly miserable. And just to make things worse, you've also got a bad case of icicle-hair. The two of them both agreed that though it had been thoroughly fun, they had no plans of having another snowball fight anytime soon.

Wrapped in towels, John and Sherlock made their way to their separate rooms. John found another perfectly pressed suit waiting for him and Sherlock found another shapeless, hideous dress waiting. (Fear not – she was prepared for this eventuality, as she had long ago learned that Mycah enjoyed tormenting her with tasteless clothes.)

45 minutes later, John looked like a human and not a snowman – looked good, even – in a neat black suit with a golden tie. He thought to himself that even if Mycah Holmes was a soulless vampire of the British Government, she seemed to have good taste in suits when she felt like indulging the common folk.

Sherlock was _not _having a good time with her hair. Her black curls were messy to begin with; frizz was an added stress she did not need. She felt not unlike a cat that had been stroked the wrong way as she glared in the mirror, mentally cursing her genetics as she tried to twist her curls into some semblance of order. She finally gave up when one piece refused to stay in place and tied the mess back with a hair elastic. She then turned to her outfit, trying to save face.

The dress had two inch straps, was short and covered in multi-coloured glitter. The shoes were covered in plastic jewels of every colour. Quickly, she slipped the gown over her head, fiddling with it until it sat properly along her waist. She took off the elastic when her hair was mostly dry and fluffed her hair couple of times, hoping against hope that they would sort themselves out.

John, having already seen what Sherlock did at Christmas, was more than a little excited to see what she would pull off this time. He wasn't disappointed.

Neither for that matter was Sherlock when she caught a glimpse of how striking John's figure was in his dark suit and tie that matched the tint of his hair. Together they braced themselves for whatever was next on this ongoing soap opera of rich people, finding themselves once again swallowed by a large crowd.

The group this time had changed. While Victor, Irene and Lestrade all came back, this time the dinner room/ballroom was filled not only with fellow Holmes but with Mycah's colleagues (minions, Sherlock insisted vehemently). As they weaved in and out of the strangers and familiar faces, there was still an odd sort of palpable tension between John and Sherlock. Like an itch that couldn't quite be reached to be scratched. They could both feel it, but refused to acknowledge it, often sneaking glances at the other even while hastily looking away. Ever since their almost kiss at Christmas, and the one from that morning, there had been….something between them. John, more than anything, wanted to kiss her. He could feel it in his bones as certainly as he could feel the worry that he would screw it up somehow. And Sherlock _really_ wanted to be kissed, so much so that she could feel her lips tingle with indecision and she frequently found herself staring at John. Not deducing him, just... _looking._ Wondering if he felt the same bubbling, thunderous butterflies in his stomach every time he looked at her, because she could hardly stand it.

Two hours later, they were both bored and high-strung, neither of them able to gather up the courage to ask or to say how they felt. John out of awkwardness, Sherlock out of pride. They both wound up mingling with other people, unable to stand being so close and yet so far away, on separate islands in their minds. Gradually, they lost track of time, having become numb due to countless minutes of small-talk with boring officials. Sherlock vaguely considered spiking the punch just to get a pulse going in the room. However she knew that Mycah had probably already set up a guard near all the food.

The inevitable came before either of them even realized, and the clock struck 11:59:50 PM January 1, 2012, and John and Sherlock were all of a sudden hyper-aware that they were on totally opposite ends of the room.

…

"_10!"_

Suddenly, without a hint of doubt, John knew he was going to kiss Sherlock, consequences be damned. To hell with fear, it was the one night in the entire year he was allowed to go for it. And if it went horribly, if it all fell to pieces? It was New Year's Eve and he could have been drunk.

"_9!"_

Throwing caution to the wind, Sherlock knew she was going to kiss him before the clock struck midnight. Damned sentiment, it had made her soft. But now, she couldn't resist its call. It had burned all resistance out of her like the hottest of flames.

"_8!"_

John scanned the room, looking for her. There were too many people. Too many voices. He cursed loudly.

"_7!"_

Sherlock's icy gray gaze scrutinized the room but to no avail. She couldn't see him. She felt herself being bumped about by other people, too drunk or too preoccupied to realize she was trying to move in the opposite direction.

"_6!"_

John pushed past a crowd of Mycah's people, _she had to be somewhere!_

"_5!"_

Sherlock tried not to feel too disappointed in herself, but the welling sadness made her throat tighten and her breath hitch. She was a disappointment, unable to even do this. Everything around her roared like a sea, and she reluctantly realized that she would drown in it before she found John.

"_4!"_

Was that Sherlock, behind the tall Holmes cousin?

_Yes._

"_**3!"**_

She had failed. It was all ruined. She should have planned it better. She wanted to kick herself in frustration.

"_**2!"**_

He was 100% sure it was her. There was no mistaking those piercing eyes or wild curls, still elegant even when messy. He lunged in her direction.

"_**1!"**_

All of a sudden, John's warm hands cupped her face, spinning her around so that she was facing deep blue eyes filled with an unnamed emotion. Too shocked to react, she felt her lips being crushed to his, and he pulled her into a crushing embrace. The world went silent. The roaring in her head stopped. And after a split-second of hesitation, Sherlock melted into his touch, kissing him back just as fiercely.

"_**HAPPY NEW YEAR!"**_

So? What are your thoughts?

Here are the dresses/shoes (I really like describing clothing)

CHRISTMAS

Sherlock's Dress: /80LLdE  
Sherlock's Shoes: /jMikIm

Irene's Dress: /BvEJ6I  
Irene's Shoes: /KXQgxb

Mycah's Dress: /v42RQO  
Mycah's Shoes: /l4YIXT

Violet's Dress: /WyRcvt

Victor's Suit: /pCtvvz

John's suit: /PZOBoV

New Year's Eve:  
Sherlock's Dress: /hSdjjb  
Sherlock's Shoes: /zcEeoW

John's Suit: /xEYmdQ

And though I didn't describe it, this is what I had in mind for Mycah:  
/rb8E0o

Thank you for reading my lovelies! Since this sis the last chapter for some time, ta ta for now!

xx, Dami


End file.
